“It’s been a long time.” His voice is flat. Even.
“It has,” I agree, my voice so sing-song I feel like an idiot. But he doesn’t seem to hear me. Instead, he’s looking me up and down, the slow inspection as sensual as a hand moving leisurely up my body. I draw in a breath and feel it flutter in my throat. My skin tingles with awareness, and I can feel small beads of sweat rise at the base of my neck, thankfully hidden under my shoulder-length chestnut waves.
I force myself not to shift my weight from foot to foot. It’s hard, because right now I feel as exposed as the models in the photographs gracing the walls behind him. And when Wyatt’s eyes finally meet mine, and his inspection ceases, I’m positive that my cheeks have bloomed a bright, revealing red.
I draw another breath in anticipation of his words. I expect him to say something about our past. At the very least, to say that it’s good to see me after so much time.
I couldn’t be more wrong.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands, and it’s as if he’s tossed a bucket of cold water all over me.
I sputter. I actually sputter as a chill runs through me, and I struggle to recover my thoughts, my power of speech, my pride. “I—I just . . . well, the job.”
I stand straighter, fighting a fresh wave of vulnerability. Because Wyatt is dangerous to me, and I really need to keep that little fact at the forefront of my mind. “I’m here about the job,” I repeat, and this time my voice is crisp and clear.
He pulls out his phone, taps the screen, then looks back at me with a frown. “Nia Hancock. Twenty-seven. Mixed race female. Her agent called yesterday and said he was sending her over.”
I lick my lips. “She, um, couldn’t come. And since I could use the job, I came in her place.”
“You came?” he repeats, and I watch as a series of expressions crosses his face, starting with surprise, then moving into confusion, and settling on something that looks remarkably like anger. “You?” His voice takes on a bland tone that is more than a little disconcerting.
I open my mouth to answer, but he continues before I can get a word in edgewise.
“You expect me to believe that Kelsey Draper wants to be a model. One of these models?” he adds, waving a hand behind him to indicate the three uncovered paintings, larger than life in so many ways.
I lick my lips, then immediately regret the unconscious action. Because I’m not sure. I’m really not sure at all.
Then I remember Griffin. And the money. And the fact that I’m desperate.
And, yes, I think about those scary-but-tantalizing sparks that are zinging around in my bloodstream. I shouldn’t want it. In fact, I should hightail it right out that door before everything crashes down on me again.
But I don’t. Instead, I glance down at the floor and murmur, “Yes. That’s exactly what I want.”
He’s silent, so I lift my chin, hoping he can see my resolve, but there’s nothing warm or welcoming in his expression. On the contrary, what I see on his face is anger. And when he scoffs and says, “What the hell kind of game are you playing this time?” I know that I’ve made a terrible, horrible, awful mistake.
“I’m not playing a game,” I protest, but my voice comes out shaky instead of strong. “It’s just that I need—”
“What?” he demands. “What could you possibly need from me?”
The harshness in his voice slices through me, and I cringe. I want to explain myself, but when I feel the tears well in my eyes, I know that there’s no way I can hold myself together. “I’m sorry,” I whisper as I turn to flee. “I should never have come here at all.”
3
I slam through the door to the alley just as my tears start to flow in earnest. And as the steel door clangs shut, I lean against the brick wall and force myself to simply breathe while my blood pounds in my veins, and images of those photographs—and the man who took them—fill my head.
Honestly, this is my own fault. What was I thinking? I should have turned around the moment I realized the audition was for Wyatt. I should have run far and fast and not even thought twice.
Instead, I lingered, craving recognition from a man who clearly wants nothing to do with me.
Which should be just fine with me. After all, if anyone can throw my carefully constructed life out of whack, it’s Wyatt. He’s temptation personified, and when I’m around him, my self-control vanishes.
And nothing good ever comes from that.
Nothing that lasts, anyway. He made me feel good, that’s for sure. So much so that the memory of his touch still fuels my fantasies, as potent now as it was more than a decade ago.
But those touches were forbidden, our moments together stolen. I knew I was breaking the rules, but I didn’t care. What good was the threat of punishment against the reality of his kisses? His soft caresses?
He eviscerated my control. Made me forget my objections. Turned my willpower to mush. And though I want to blame him, I know that in reality, it was all on me.
I wanted to be bad—more specifically, I wanted to be bad with Wyatt.
Even then, I knew I’d have to pay. Of course, I would. There’s always a price when you break the rules. Hadn’t I been raised on that mantra? Hadn’t it been drilled deep into my soul?
But until Wyatt, I never really tested it.
Maybe I didn’t believe it.
Maybe I thought I could outwit fate.
But Karma is a nosy, invasive bookie, and when you try to cheat her, she takes what she’s owed.
I’ve been scrambling for years to pay that debt. And fifteen thousand will go a long way to repairing the biggest mistake of my life.
Or it could have. But I bolted, and in the process I destroyed my only chance to get that much money in so short a time.
My stomach churns and bile rises in my throat as that simple reality settles over me. I bolted.
I didn’t just walk away from the chance to earn that money, I sprinted.
Am I really so lame? So fragile that I’ll shatter under the chill in his voice or the ice in his eyes?
After all, what did I expect? That we’d both look at each other with wide-eyed surprise and then leap across a daisy-strewn studio into each other’s arms while orchestral music played in the background?
That our past would be magically erased, and bluebirds of happiness would ring our heads while tweeting a chipper melody?
Not hardly.
I should have stayed. I should have looked him in the eye, told him I’d come about the job, and steadfastly repeated that the past didn’t matter. Over and over and over for as long as it took for him to ignore everything that happened before and simply hire me.
Because I hadn’t come to Santa Monica to see Wyatt Segel or W. Royce or whatever name he wanted to go by. I hadn’t come because I have some deep hidden desire to strip my clothes off in front of a camera. And I most certainly hadn’t come for the fizzle and pop that fills me every time Wyatt is near.
I came solely for the money. For Griffin.